To Make a Long Night Shorter
by Waldo
Summary: For John, watching Ford recover was worse than watching him kill himself with that damn enzyme. Thank god he had someone to go home to at night. pure speculation, no spoilers


**Title**: To Make a Long Night Shorter  
**Fandom**: Stargate: Atlantis  
**Pairing**: Sheppard/Beckett (takes place in an established S/B relationship, but isn't really about that)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Author's Notes**: I don't read spoilers, so this is purely made up s. Takes place sometime after "The Hive", when they finally get Ford home. (Yes, I do fully expect for this to be AR in short order). This is the first thing I"m posting that was written specifically for this comm, so feedback would be awesome.  
**Summary**: For John, watching Ford recover was worse than watching him kill himself with that damn enzyme. Thank god he had someone to go home to at night.

**To Make a Long Night Shorter**  
**by Waldo.**

For John, watching Ford recover was worse than watching him kill himself with that damn enzyme. He shifted in his chair again. He was beginning to think he was going to grow old in it. He leaned on one armrest and then leaned back, struggling and failing to find a way to relieve the numbness in his ass. Carson would probably come in soon and try to run him out again. He debated letting him.

Letting someone else have a turn at this interminable vigil.

Another teartrack on Ford's cheek caught his eye. He grabbed a tissue and moved to sit on the edge of the bed again. He wiped Aiden's eyes and cheek, whispering soothing, meaningless, words of comfort; hoping that he was too deeply asleep to hear him and at the same time hoping that he wasn't so miserable that he was crying like that in his sleep.

He'd been back for eight days. The first four were spent in hard restraints, cursing everyone, maligning parentage and swearing revenge on anyone who dared to try and help him. John had found Carson near tears several times during those harrowing days. Not over what Aiden was saying, but at the fact that the kid was so miserable and still so strung out and because for several days Carson hadn't had a clue how to help him.

The swearing stopped abruptly the night between the fourth and fifth days. Aiden had had four seizures in three hours. Ford's team had begun thinking of their time at his bed between them as a deathwatch. Carson and his staff had furiously tried to stabilize both his brain and blood chemistries.

Aiden fell unconscious after the fifth seizure and didn't wake for two more days.

Now he woke periodically; sobbing in pain and fear, regret and shame.

John wasn't sure what the doctors had done to keep him alive. Carson had explained it – several times, if John recalled correctly – but why he was still alive made little sense to him. But when it came to Carson and what Rodney still insisted on calling his 'voodoo', John had learned that 'why?' didn't matter. As long as Aiden's chest rose and fell, as long as the heart monitor continued to show it's semi-healthy peaks and valleys, John didn't give a damn why.

John wiped Aiden's face and gently stroked his shoulder. At least when he cried in his sleep he wasn't constantly trying to apologize for everything he'd done while under the influence of the enzyme.

The door to the isolation room opened and closed behind him, but he didn't look up to see who it was. There were only a handful of people on the approved visitors list. A few medical staff who needed access and the three people that Ford seemed to be less afraid of than others: John, Teyla and – oddly enough – Ronon Dex.

Dex had come in to sit with Aiden long enough for John to get some lunch that afternoon. Rodney had been in the commissary and despite John's efforts to sit alone and let his head clear, Rodney had grabbed his tray and relocated as soon as John had found a seat.

"How is he?" he'd asked.

"Miserable," John said as he poked at his jello, wondering why it was on his tray when he didn't really care for jello. "Terrified, ashamed, sick, did I say 'terrified' yet?" It wasn't a point of emphasis. He couldn't remember if he had or not.

Rodney had nodded and started tearing apart a French fry. Very quietly, and without looking at John he admitted, "At first I was kind of pissed when I wasn't put on the list. I mean, it's not like we were ever best friends or anything, but I had assumed the team… the whole team… But every time I see someone who's just been in with him I wonder if I'm not … being spared something."

Another time John might have been truly impressed that Rodney McKay was capable of both having that sort of insight and have the ability and willingness to share it. But as bone-weary as he was that day, it sounded hollow. Like Rodney had gotten out of K.P. duty or something equally as mundane and loathed.

He'd stormed out of the commissary without having eaten anything.

But now, as he sat next to Ford for what felt like the thousandth hour, wiping tears off his face for the millionth time, he was starting to appreciate what Rodney had actually been saying. Aiden had been ambulatory when he'd been dragged in to the infirmary, his hands in heavy metal shackles, his feet bound by a length of chain that John was pretty sure would hold a boat to it's moor through a hurricane.

With any luck at all he'd be walking out again some day in the future. And Rodney would only know that he'd been 'sick'. That he'd been 'in pain'. That he'd been 'afraid'. But they'd be abstract ideas.

John knew that it would be years, if ever, before he could look at Ford and not see a shadow of this. Of a kid who'd once thrown himself through a wormhole backwards, a kid who'd teased McKay for being old on a planet where _he'd_ been 'over the hill', a kid who had smart remarks and fast reflexes and a head for military tactics, who was now curled up in a fetal ball, shaking and crying even in sleep, his pain and humiliation ran so deep.

Whoever had come in, still hadn't said anything, so John looked up from his gentle stroking and nonsense whispering. Aiden seemed to have stilled for the moment, and John found himself hoping it was a genuine respite from the pain and fear and not just exhaustion so extreme he couldn't cry anymore. John turned to see Carson leaning on the door, studying them both. He pushed away from the door, walking towards John, when John finally acknowledged him. He stopped next to the bed, grabbing a tissue from the box on the table. John looked back down at Aiden, wondering if he'd started crying again and was startled to feel Carson wiping his cheek.

He wondered how long he'd been crying and not even noticing.

Carson put the tissue in the pocket of his labcoat and rested both hands on John's shoulders, rubbing lightly. "Teyla's here. She wants to sit with him for a while. You should come to bed."

John nodded, but didn't move. Carson moved a little closer so John could lean back on his chest. "You've been here for the better part of 20 hours with only a couple of short breaks. It's time to let someone else take the burden for a while," Carson whispered, knowing Aiden was too far gone to hear.

That song – the one John had always found sentimental crap filtered through John's head – "He ain't heavy; he's my brother." Not so much crap tonight.

"Just a few more minutes. I want to be sure he really is settling in for a while."

Carson nodded and kissed the top of John's head. "I'll wait up," he said before leaving.


End file.
